Meeting the Family
by Sen Graham
Summary: At the request of his boyfriend, Prussia goes to formally meet the family: The original dysfunctional family from the depths of hell.  Can Prussia survive power drills, sheep, the IRA, inventions, delicious cake and giant explosions?
1. Chapter 1

_Oh my dear sister...you should have never told me you liked PruCan...now you have to live with this abomination on your conscience. _

_I don't own Hetalia, you can all be grateful for that. _

* * *

Prologue: Meeting the Family

Gilbert checked himself over in the mirror. He looked great, as usual, with his hair neatly arranged and in semi-formal attire, slacks and a polo shirt. Normally he would wear whatever the hell he wanted, but then, most of his dates did not start with formally meeting the family. Family seemed important to Matthew, so of course Gilbert did not want to look like a complete asshole and act like meeting Matthew's family meant nothing to him. He wanted to show that he did in fact give a damn and wanted to put effort into this potential relationship.

Gilbert looked at the corner of the mirror where a couple of pictures of Matthew had been tacked. He wanted to get some new ones. Gilbert, unlike his Hungarian friend, was not a stalker. All of his photos of Matthew had been cut out of group photos of nations in the past, back when he had not really taken notice of the Canadian. The personification of Prussia smiled as he thought back to their first meeting. Not their actual first meeting, Gilbert could not even remember whenever the hell that was, but he remembered the meeting where he had discovered he was in love. He had gotten drunk off his ass at a sleazy bar after a meeting and Matthew had stayed with him, all night, making sure he did not choke on his own vomit. After Gilbert had gotten over the hangover and confusion, it was love at first sight. After that fateful encounter, Gilbert put a little extra effort into looking out for the Canadian wallflower at meetings, 'accidentally' running into him and things like that. When Matthew finally got the nerve to engage Gilbert in a conversation that went beyond, 'Oh, hello again, how are you?' the two finally hit it off.

The albino looked at the latest picture he had tacked up. It was a photo that Matthew had given him to study before he met the family. Matthew had a very large extended family on both sides, with England of course having that huge commonwealth and France being a former imperialist power. On the English side, there were his aunt Ireland and his uncles Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland. The last one always unsettled Gilbert a little, imagining what it would be like to call a younger nation 'uncle.' Matthew also had a shit load of cousins. Gilbert remembered wondering how his eyes had not popped out of his head when he had first seen the picture. Antigua and Barbuda, Australia, Bahamas, Bangladesh, Barbados, Belize, Botswana, Brunei, Cameroon, Cyprus, Dominica, Gambia, Ghana, Grenada, Guyana, India, Jamaica, Kenya, Kiribati, Lesotho, Malawi, Malaysia, Maldives, Malta, Mauritius, Mozambique, Namibia, Nauru, New Zealand, Nigeria, Pakistan, Papua New Guinea, Rwanda, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Samoa, Seychelles, Sierra Leone, Singapore, Solomon Islands, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Swaziland, Tanzania, Tonga, Trinidad and Tobago, Tuvalu, Uganda, Vanuatu and Zambia. Not to mention his brother America. Matthew also mentioned having another cousin, a colony of Scotland's who had passed away named Darien.

And then there was the French side, with France and Monaco of course. The Canadian also had a shit load of cousins on that side as well. There was Haiti, Dominican Republic, Algeria, Tunisia, Morocco, Mauritania, Mali, Senegal, Guiana, Niger, Chad, Burkina Faso, Ivory Coast, Gabon, Benin, Togo, Central African Republic, Djibouti, Madagascar, Comoros, French Southern and Antarctic Lands, Syria, Lebanon, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, Wallis and Futuna, and Libya. Just looking at the picture with the entire family crammed in tightly together made Gilbert's head spin. No wonder people forgot about Matthew. With such an enormous family, from literally all over the world, with all kinds of problems, it was no wonder the poor Canadian tended to get forgotten.

Thankfully though, Gilbert would not have to remember all of them…at least this visit. No, this visit was just a gathering of the Canadian's 'closest' relatives. This of course meant it would still be huge, but at least he would not have to memorize the entire commonwealth. He had enough trouble remembering everyone with the damned picture right in front of him. No, this was just Matthew's parents, his uncles and aunts, and his brother, all gathering at England's house, aka Kirkland Manor.

"Ready to go yet Gil?" asked Matthew, his voice drifting down the hall.

"Yeah, just cleaning up so I can look pretty for your parents," teased Gilbert, checking his hair one last time. It was, as always, awesome. So were his nails, teeth, skin, clothes…all were nothing short of awesome. Gilbert winked at himself in the mirror, gave the picture of the enormous family one last look before turning off the bathroom light and heading to the kitchen. "Sorry to keep you waiting Birdie. So, think mom and dad will approve of my awesome?"

Matthew, the gentle Canadian and ultimate wallflower looked him over and bit his lip. Gilbert sighed and took Matthew's hands in his own, "Come on, whatever it is, you'd better say it now so I don't make an ass of myself later, right?"

"It's just…well…you dressed up," said Matthew.

"Of course I dressed up! I mean, I like you Mattie, I want to make a good impression. Sure I've met them before, but not like this. I want to show them I'm willing to go the extra mile for you," explained Gilbert, "Or…are they not really going to care of notice?"

"Well, England might," admitted Matthew, "France definitely will notice what you wear, and maybe Scotland. But, uh, see, my family can be a bit…rough…and we sometimes play some pretty rough games when we get together. I just don't want to see you ruin your outfit."

Gilbert laughed, "Oh Birdie, I don't give a damn what happens to these clothes. And if it gets me in England and France's good books, then I'll wear anything. Come on, you have to admit I can make anything look good!"

Matthew giggled a little, "I don't know…can you rock a tutu?"

"Indeed I could," grinned Gilbert, "Now, let's get going.

"Are you sure?" asked Matthew, "This will be your last chance to change clothes."

"Yeah, it's no big deal. These belong to West anyways."

* * *

_Review~~ :D ? _


	2. Aunty Killian and Uncle Liam

_Dear Sister, consider this a strange parallel love ballad of our relationship as siblings. I love you, but sometimes, I just want to take a power drill to your kneecaps..._

_Love you Sis._

* * *

Aunt Killian and Uncle Liam

Gilbert's jaw nearly dropped as Matthew pulled into the private drive that lead to England's house. England probably had one of the nicest properties Gilbert had ever seen. The manor was built on farmland, which included a small apple orchard, plots for vegetable gardens and one kick ass garden. Gilbert would not normally describe a garden as being 'kick-ass' but this one was different. The thing was pretty, sure, but it seemed to look more like a playground that anything. A place where kids would love to play. They did pass one curious building though. A mangled looking shack with barbed wire around it, the surrounding grass looking scorched and dead with burns from both fire and acid covering the wooden boards. It seriously looked like a place a mad scientist would hang out.

"Uh…Matt…that building…" asked Gilbert nervously.

"Oh, that's Uncle Scotland's. England won't let him experiment in the house, you know, in case things blow up," explained Matthew nervously. He pursed his lips and tucked his hair behind his ear. Gilbert rolled his eyes.

"Birdie, I knew before I started dating you that you were related to psychos, why the hell would I back out now?" teased the Prussian. He looked out over the property again, seeing a large red barn with a lanky young man leading a herd of sheep inside. "Wow, this place has everything but a pool."

"Actually, there's a creek," said Matthew as he parked the car near an old hitching post, "When England built this place, he wanted it to be completely self sufficient. It worked out pretty well for him, whenever things had to be rationed or there was a depression, he got by fine."

Gilbert nodded. The place was pretty functional, that he would admit. Gilbert got out of the car, glad that it was not a clichéd rainy day in England and smelled the fresh air. It smelled like a farm, in a good way. All sweet from the hay and flourishing plants everywhere. Matthew got out too and stretched a little. "I used to love coming here as a kid…N-not that I don't love it anymore but…I just always looked forward to visiting."

"It's nice. I think I'd have loved this kind of place as a kid too," said Gilbert, "Now, let's not keep them waiting in anticipation for my awesomeness!"

Matthew laughed lightly and shyly as he made his way up the old wooden steps to the front door. He paused, spying a figure on the front porch swing. A hat pulled down over their face, both Matthew and Gilbert could not tell who it was. The person wore a plain white shirt that was stained by grass and dirt, a black vest that opened at the front, a pair of plain blue jeans and a pair of rubber boots. Ginger curls peaked out from under the hat that obscured a freckled face. Gilbert grinned. He knew who this was.

"Must be asleep," said Matthew quietly.

"Don't worry, I'll wake her up," Gilbert chuckled in a slightly evil way.

Matthew reached out and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out, making him look like he was doing his best impression of a blowfish. Gilbert crouched down close to the figure's ear, whispering quietly, "Brother Killian…the Norsemen are at our gates, and they brought Cromwell!"

The figure stirred slightly, groaning. Using a finger to push up the hat, Gilbert was surprised to discover it was a young man's face, "You know, I don't think my sister likes it when you tease her about her post traumatic syndrome."

"Hi Uncle Liam," said the Canadian, nervously hiding behind the Prussian.

"Yeah…hi…" said Liam awkwardly, still not used all these older nations calling him 'uncle', "Have a safe drive?"

"Uh-huh," replied Canada, "Anyways, you've met Gilbert, right?"

"Seen him around," said Liam, looking Prussia over. He offered his hand, "Name's Liam Ward, Northern Ireland."

Gilbert shook the young nation's hand, making a mental note of his human name, "Gilbert Beilschmidt, I'm Prussia."

The Canadian sighed with relief, happy that Liam had not tried to kill Prussia. Perhaps back in the seventies, he might have been insulted at being mistaken for the Republic of Ireland, and a girl, but recently he did not seem to mind as much. The two Irelands even dressed as each other on occasion to cause a little mischief.

"So, you two going to stand on the porch all day?" asked Liam.

"Uh…w-well…is anyone…um…" began Matthew.

Liam got up and stretched a little, "Scotland's in the shack, Wales is bringing the sheep in, France is in the kitchen with Monaco, America ran out to get something and dragged England with him, and Sis is…actually, I'm not sure where she is."

"South of you of course."

Liam, Matthew and Gilbert collectively jumped as the Republic of Ireland crawled out from under the porch swing. Killian Bhaird was filthy, of course, having taken a nap under a porch swing. Leaves and twigs protruded from a mess of long red hair, and her freckled face showed signs of irritation. Her clothes were also a mess, and more appropriate for an eighty year old man complete with a tweed jacket and a newsboy cap, but for Ireland, that seemed to be normal.

"Aunty Killian…um…why were you…" began Canada.

"None of your damn business," growled Killian, taking out a flask, engraved with the phrase 'Irish I were Drunk' and taking a long swig. She belched, stretched, and shook dead leaves out of her hair, much to Prussia's disgust and fascination. Ireland certainly was a…unique country.

"Sis, just go in the house," said Liam.

"I spent eight hundred fecking years trying to get out of that house! I am not under any circumstances going back in!" exclaimed Killian, shaking her fists angrily at the sky.

"But you didn't spend eight hundred years in the house. Let's see, you ran away with France for about a hundred years, hung out with Spain, kept sneaking out…" rambled Liam.

"Eight hundred years!" Killian yelled, "I'm not going back in! Not if you beg me! You'll have to drag my cold dead corpse inside if you want me there!"

"Watch your blood pressure sis," reminded Liam, "Besides, nobody's making you rejoin the United Kingdom, we just want you to come in the house. You've spent the last three nights sleeping in the barn, in Scotland's shack, and now on the porch."

"It's not the point. It's the principle, don't insult my manly fortitude!" protested Killian.

"Sure thing sis…" groaned Liam, "You do know you're a girl right?"

"Pft, only in the biological sense," cackled Killian, "I've got more balls than anyone here. Anyways, I'm going to make camp in the backyard if anyone needs me."

"W-wait, Aunty…" gasped Matthew.

"What?" asked Killian, turning sharply on her heel to look at the couple, "Oh…that."

"Um…I know you don't…that you're not…it's just…it would mean a lot to me…to us…if you…" Matthew trailed off.

"Matthew. Oscar fecking Wilde, is my favourite poet, I'm not as intolerant as everybody thinks," grumbled Killian, "Now come here, I'll give you both an Irish blessing."

Gilbert smiled. This was going surprisingly well, better than he thought it would. Yes, they were crazy, but it seemed like a sort of pleasant crazy. He had expected Ireland to attack them with holy water and yell something about 'quaars', kill the awesome him and force Matthew into penance for a few decades. The rough girl in dated clothes took their hands and made the sign of the cross. Matthew flushed and Gilbert smiled knowingly. Cute little Mattie was probably thinking of weddings…

"May those who love us love us. And those that don't love us, may God turn their hearts. And if he doesn't turn their hearts…" Killian grinned psychotically and cackled menacingly, "May he turn their ankles so we'll know them by their limping!"

Matthew squeaked and pulled his hand back as Killian started laughing like a homicidal maniac. Gilbert inched away slightly as Liam rolled his eyes. Killian calmed herself down a little, "Anyways, like I said, I'll be in the back. And Gilbert, if you cheat, your ass is officially mine."

Matthew shook a little, "Th-thank you aunty…it really does mean a lot to us that you won't…uh…try to murder us for being sodomites or something…"

Killian waved off the comment and headed off towards the back yard. Gilbert just sort of stood on the porch gaping at what he had just heard and witnessed. Matthew's family was filled with a bunch of violent psychopaths. He had known that, and them, for centuries. But somehow, it was sort of dawning on him that if he and Matthew decided to take their relationship to another level, these psychos would be his in-laws…

"So…Taryn's in the barn and Earnan's in the shack. I could call them in if you like," offered Liam.

"It's okay Uncle Liam," assured Matthew, "Gil, how about we go see Uncle Taryn first? I don't think you've met him."

"Sure Mattie, you lead the way," replied Gilbert.

Matthew descended the steps of the Victorian manor with practiced and familiar ease. Gilbert was about to follow when he felt a hand clamp like an iron vice around his shoulder. He turned to see Liam's face, dark and threatening, "He likes you, and I'm glad for it, but you break his heart and you'll have more than my sister to worry about."

Gilbert, not to be intimidated, stared down Matthew's younger uncle, "What makes you think I will? Or that you're a challenge for me, squirt. You're barely ninety years old, and I'm the awesome Prussia!"

"Ever had a cordless fourteen volt mastercraft with a two hundred in pound torque motor drilling a titanium pilot point bit through your kneecaps faster than you can say 'I'm fecked'?" asked Liam, smiling pleasantly.

"Can't…say I have…" said the Prussian personification, deciding to humour the crazy Irish boy currently threatening his awesome kneecaps with a power drill.

"I might not be the biggest nation, or oldest, or most powerful, but I've survived being bombed by the Germans, the Troubles, and family vacations to Limerick and Glasgow. Do not mess with me, or my nephew!"

Gilbert wondered how the hell a family vacation could rank higher than guerrilla warfare and the Second World War, but decided not to question it. Liam was crazy, his sister was crazy, the whole family was crazy and dammit he wanted to go back to Matthew so he could watch that sweet Canadian ass when he walked! Gilbert smiled and nodded at Liam, then ran off to join Matthew. He was happy to let Matthew lead him to the large, picture perfect red barn. Just a few paces ahead, with those long strides in those worn out blue jeans that hugged his ass just right…

* * *

_Beause I love etymology, let's have some of these names explained, shall we?_

_Liam: Sometimes used as a short form of William, Liam comes from the Hewbrew language meaning "My people; my nation." Germanic meanins include "Protection" "Desire" and "Will"_

_Ward: In Ireland, when the English were trying to stamp out the Irish language, many surnames were anglisized. Ward, can actually be derived from Bhaird._

_Killian: Killian is a male name, but in more recent years has become more unisex, adding to the Republic of Ireland's gender confusion. Killian comes from a family of like sounding Irish names and has many debated meanings. Killian can mean "Bright headed" "Strife" "Warrior" "By the Church" and "A Monk's Cell."_

_Bhaird: Irish for Bard. Bards were the lowest rank in the Druidic class and played an important role in ancient Irish society. Bards served as historians, lawyers, entertainers, judges, clairvoyants, poets, and religious leaders._


	3. Uncle Taryn

_My dear sister...I am so glad you were not present for some of my more awkward moments at the farm (you know the one). Running over turtles, drinking, shooting racoons, listening to tales of Steve artificially inseminating the sows whilst singing Shania Twain's "I'm Gonna Getcha Good". I am so glad you were not present, but not so glad that I won't give you horrible mental images for the rest of your life. _

_Love, your sister 3_

_PS Apparently someone in our area has a pet Zebra. Ask Bacon ;) You should check it out. _

* * *

Uncle Taryn

The Prussian walked into the barn to find it a pleasant, warm and well light place, even if it was a bit smelly. Scratch that, really smelly. It stank of sheep. It was also loud, with sheep constantly bleating and the sounds of other animals in other sections of the barn making the Prussian want to lead his boyfriend out of the barn and somewhere quieter. Yes he normally blasted loud music, much to West's displeasure, but at least the music had a rhythm to it, unlike these damned sheep. Of course, if he did lead Matthew out of the barn he would have missed the adorable sight of his innocent looking boyfriend cuddling a lamb. Gilbert pulled out his phone, "Mattie, I'm taking a picture, okay?"

Matthew looked up, surprised and Gilbert snapped the photo. It was cute, so cute it almost hurt. This one was definitely going on his wall, desktop, dashboard, desk, office, and wherever the hell else he could cram a photo. Matthew blushed, "G-Gil, take a different one. I probably looked stupid."

"No way you could look stupid," assured Gilbert, "Now where's Welshy? You'd think he'd be easy to find in a barn full of sheep."

"You know, that's a terrible stereotype," scolded Matthew, "He might be with the horses, or cows, or pigs, or even with the chickens."

As if on an ironic cue, Wales danced his way out of one stall, ear-buds firmly planted in his ears, carrying a cooler and entering the next stall, dancing slightly to the music blasting in his ears. Gilbert smiled at his brilliant deductive skills and Matthew palmed his forehead. The Canadian wove his way through sheep and farm equipment to find his Uncle, of all things, artificially inseminating a ewe. Gilbert smiled broader, "Told you."

Wales however, did not seem to notice and was contentedly singing along with Tom Jones as he shoved a syringe into the poor sheep. "Pussycat pussycat I've got flowers and I've got hours to spend, with you~"

"Uncle Taryn…" squeaked Matthew, red faced from embarrassment.

"So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose! Pussycat, Pussycat I love you~" Sang Wales, pulling out the syringe with a flourish, splattering sheep fluids as he did.

"Uncle Taryn!" yelled Matthew indignantly while Gilbert tried not to die laughing.

Wales paused and took out his ear buds, grinning and recited a long practiced and recited speech, "Yes, I am Welsh, yes I am artificially inseminating sheep, I am very aware of the irony."

"Uncle Taryn, this is Gilbert, I brought him over to meet you," said Matthew, once again becoming quiet and retiring.

"Hm…I think I remember him…didn't you try to blow my head off at Mametz Woods?" asked Wales, his smiled broadening, "I don't like being shot at…"

"Um…" said Gilbert, scratching the back of his head. Why did he bring up the war? He hated it when people brought up the wars. In all likelihood, he probably had tried to blow off the Welshman's head in one battle or another. He was ashamed of it, deathly ashamed of it.

"Anyways, I'm Taryn Hywel. My real name is Cymru, but most call me Wales. I like long walks on sandy beaches, coal mining, and Tom Jones. My goal is to weasel my way into the Union Jack and finally get credit for discovering America," chattered Wales, taking Gilbert's hand in his own gloved, sheep fluid covered hand and shaking the albino's warmly.

"Charmed…" groaned the Prussian, feeling like he would vomit at the feel of rubber, wool and sheep fluids on his hand.

Taryn continued to shake the Prussians hand, which Gilbert, thoroughly disgusted, tried to pull away. The Welshman looked down, "Oh, I'm so sorry, you're not wearing gloves. I didn't notice."

"Then let go of my hand!" exclaimed Gilbert.

"Uh…..no~" smiled the Welshmen, "It's time to prove you're a real man!"

"Wait…what?" said the Prussian, still trying to take his hand back.

"If you want to date my nephew, you must prove yourself worthy," announced Wales. He reached into the cooler and pulled out a syringe. Taryn thrust it into Gilberts hand, "Go to the next stall and knock up that sheep."

"Uncle Taryn!" exclaimed Canada, his face beet red with humiliation.

"If he can't impregnate a sheep how can he impregnate you? I want grandkids…" pouted Taryn.

"Uncle Taryn. I. Cannot. Make. Babies," Matthew tried to explain, "Gilbert, it's fine, you don't have to go through with this."

"It's okay Birdie. This…this is a test of my awesomeness! I'll prove my love for you by whatever means necessary!" proclaimed the Prussian.

"That's the spirit! Go get her tiger~" called the Welshman as the Canadian groaned and went to go hit his head on a support beam, in the hopes of erasing the last few minutes from his memory.

Gilbert walked into the stall, gulping. This was for Matthew. If he wanted to be with Matthew, he would have to pass the Welshman's test. For Matthews sake, he, Prussia, would shag a sheep…with a syringe...but still! He crouched down, lifted the sheep's tail and tried to figure out exactly where he was supposed to put the damned thing.

"What's the matter?" sang Tyran, skipping up behind Gilbert, "If you can't do it with a sheep how can you do it with my nephew?"

"No! I'm just…well…it's…where do you…?" stammered Gilbert.

The Welshman shrugged, "Once you figure it out, make it quick. It's not exactly a pleasant process for them."

'It's not a pleasant process for me either,' Gilbert thought to himself. Finding what he thought was the right spot, he shoved the syringe in, squeezed out the contents much to the sheep's displeasure and pulled back as quickly as he could.

"That…was disgusting…" said Gilbert.

"Don't talk about your unborn child like that!" scolded Taryn, his grin as broad as ever, "I hereby give you my permission to marry my nephew."

"Yeah…great…can I go wash my hands now?" asked Gilbert.

"Sure, Alban should have some hand-san in the shack," said Wales, pointing to the barn exit, "Nice meeting you Gilbert, I'll send you pictures when your baby arrives~"

Matthew and Gilbert left, shaken and disturbed by what they had witnessed while Wales retrieved his cooler. His smile faded slightly as his pocket began buzzing and playing the tune Sosban Fach. The Welshman removed his gloves and fished the phone out of his pocket. He did not need to look at the caller ID. He knew who it was.

"Hey English."

"Wales? But…how did you know it was me?

"Oh, Iwerddon showed me how to set specific ring tones to different callers. You get to be Sosban Fach."

"That had better not be a Welsh insult…listen, how is Prussia holding up? I only have a minute to talk…Alfred thinks I'm going to the loo…"

"He survived Iwerddon and Gogledd Iwerddon…and impregnating a sheep…"

"What?"

"Long story, but the point is he's hanging in there. He could be the one…the one suitor…to rule them-"

"Only New Zealand and I can make Tolkien jokes! So he survived the Irelands…or did they back out?"

"Nope, I heard Iwerddon faking crazy laughter and Gogledd Iwerddon got his drill out. We're being as scary as we can without killing him…"

"Right, well, this calls for phase two."

"Phase two?"

"Yes Wales, phase two. It's time to call in the big guns…the really really big guns. If he survives this, then they are truly meant for each other…you know what to do."

"I'm way ahead of you English…"

Wales pressed the red button on his phone to hang up. He quickly went through his contact list and found America on speed dial. For a moment, Wales wondered why he had to be the one to call Alfred Jones, but shrugged it off. It would be fun, even if it was a bit of a pain. Taryn held the receiver to his ear and listened to it ring. Once, then twice, and then…

"Hu-how?" grunted the American through what Taryn presumed to be a mouthful of hamburger.

"Oh America!" Wales fake sobbed, "It's terrible! You're brother's new boyfriend raided my barn and raped my sheep!"

Wales tried not to laugh, trying instead to sound like he was crying as the American choked on whatever he was eating. "HE WHAT!"

"I know…poor Dolly, she was still just a lamb!"

"That's it! That son of a bitch is going down! Don't worry Uncle Taryn! The Hero is on the way!"

Wales grinned as America hung up. Yes indeed, if the Prussian survived this turn of events, he would truly be The One Suitor, To Rule Them All!

* * *

"Nice touch with the drill bro," grinned Killian, punching Liam in the arm playfully as her brother came around the corner of the house to the back yard. The two Ireland's laughed in hushed voices until they were certain that the two love birds were inside the barn.

"No no, crawling out from under the porch, the flask, the spazz attack, the homicidal laughter, priceless," replied Liam, "What was in the flask anyways?"

"Apple juice," grinned Killian, "So, do you think Taryn will get him?"

"Does it even matter? He won't survive France, that's for sure," reasoned Liam, "That man has more pheromones in his little finger than all our islands combined. My guess is he'll make them both fall for him."

Killian shot her brother a look, "I don't know, Taryn is pretty good…He's probably thought light years ahead of either of us…"

"How much do you want to bet?" asked Liam.

"Sorry, I've given up betting cash for a while. Can't risk it with my economy," shrugged Killian, "But I'll bet you a favour instead."

"Deal," smiled Liam, shaking his sister's hand, "Anyways, I'm going into the house. France and Monaco are cooking. I can't wait to taste food with actual _flavour_ in it again."

"Alright, I'll see you later than."

Liam paused and turned in the doorway, "You're really not coming in? I thought it was a joke."

Killian smiled apologetically, "Eventually…but not right now. We can't have our little ruse fall apart can we? And, well, this place brings back some hard memories…"

Liam frowned and reached out his hand to his sister, "I'm sorry…I mean…" Killian pressed a finger to her almost identical brother's lips to silence him.

"Don't worry about it. I just need to toughen up and move forward," grinned Killian, "After all, I have the most balls out of all of us, remember? I'll be fine, just need to work up the courage."

The younger Ireland nodded with a slight laugh, "I think Earnan would challenge that claim. But anyways, do you need anything from the house to 'make camp'?"

Killian crossed her arms and looked out of the corner of her right eye ponderously, "Yes…I'll need some rope, lots of empty beer bottles, Irish Spring soap, a fiddle, Lucky Charms cereal, the worst possible rendition of Danny Boy you can find, and a broadsword."

Liam grinned, "Crazy Irish routine again?"

"Liam…you have no idea," grinned Killian mischievously.

* * *

_Yet another brief lesson in Etymology~ _

_Taryn is a male Welsh name meaning 'Thunder.' _

_Hywel, for those who might have guessed, is an homage to Wizard Howl aka Howell Jenkins, a Welsh character from Diana Wynne Jones'novel "Howl's moving Castle." Hywel means "Eminent" or "Remarkable." _

_Scotland, France and Monaco debut next chapter~_


	4. Uncle Earnan

_Dear sister...I'm not sure if you were old enough to remember our first trip to Disney World. We, along with out brothers played that bizarre form of rock-paper-scissors. We all loved it, but I'm not sure the elderly couple seated infront of us at Mickey's Magical Whatever-Show did...hindsight's funny like that. _

_PS, Sorry, it was CHAD who sang Shania Twain in the barns, not Steve. Steve was the one with the racoon shooting ._

* * *

Uncle Earnan

"I'm so sorry Gil…I had no idea he would do that…" apologized the Canadian, leading his boyfriend out of the barn, "I will totally understand if you want to leave me right here and now."

Off in the distance, Gilbert flinched as he heard the motor of a power drill whirling. "No way. Not only will your relatives kill me, I would kill me! I love you too much to leave you."

"Okay…well…I guess we better ask Uncle Earnan for some hand sanitizer," said the Canadian softly.

Gilbert and Matthew made their way towards 'the shack.' The shack was Scotland's territory. It had been built after Scotland regained enough independence, and England got sick of cleaning scorch marks off of various surfaces in the house. Also, there were times when France would come to visit, and England slept much more peacefully at night knowing that France and Scotland did…whatever they did…in a place that was not in his house. Matthew shuddered. It was still bizarre remembering the fact that for centuries his Uncle was sleeping with his Papa behind his Father's back.

Matthew knocked on the door, which almost immediately there was a loud bang and the flew open, black smoke flowing freely out of the open door as a giant of a man wearing a kilt and a lab coat stumbled out, coughing and gasping for air. He was covered with smuts and burn marks, clinging to the doorway as it looked like he was ready to cough up a lung. Gilbert stared at him. He was a huge guy, a little shorter than Russia, but still huge, and built like a mac-truck! His hair was dark and curly, and it looked as though half of what should have been very thick eyebrows had been burned off.

"U-Uncle Earnan?" cried Matthew in alarm, rushing to his Uncle's side.

"Take notes lad take notes!" yelled the Scotsman desperately, "Too high oxygen to acetylene ratio won't work!"

"I don't have a notepad!" squeaked the Canadian.

"You! White boy! Write that down!" yelled Earnan.

"Wait…what?" asked Gilbert.

"A microwave time-bomb!" exclaimed Earnan, "Like rock-paper-scissors-dynamite-microwave-time bomb!"

"Wait…now I'm really confused…?" said the Prussian slowly.

"Oh, you play a different version?" said the Scotsman, sliding his goggles up to his forehead.

"Yeah, you know, it's rock, paper, scissors," said Gilbert, showing each sign.

Scotland's personification looked at the hand signals with fascination, "Oh, I guess less people die when you play it then?"

"Mattie…explain. Please?" asked Gilbert, whose brain was in the process of breaking.

"Um, well…see…" began Matthew, really not sure himself, "Uh…Uncle Earnan explains it better?"

"Well, it's better demonstrated. Most of the smoke has cleared, come on in," said Earnan, motioning for the two to enter the shack.

The shack looked as much a mad scientist's layer on the inside as it did on the outside. It was smoky, and stank of who only knew what. It was surprisingly cozy and organized, considering the outside looked like some sort of bomb shelter. Racks for tools were clearly labelled, bottles with various elements, powders and liquids lay strewn across the desk, along with a notebook and a copy of the Complete Poems of Robert Burns. Gilbert took a look at the notes. 'Things that explode in microwaves.' Gilbert grinned, it sounded like his kind of experiment. It was all so clearly written out too, apparently different settings and different makes and models of microwaves produced different kinds of explosions.

"Now you see, around here, we use rock paper scissors to divide chores amongst ourselves, or at least we used to," explained Earnan, putting a large box on the desk, "Anyhow this is rock."

Matthew's large uncle pulled a massive skull sized rock and lobbed across the room, causing the Canadian to squeak and the Prussian to dodge. The Scotsman continued pleasantly, "This is scissors."

Gilbert dodged again as a pair of scissors narrowly missed his awesome self.

"Here's dynamite…" said Earnan, lighting up the fuse to a stick.

"Okay I get it! I get it!" yelped Gilbert, "Put that thing out!"

Earnan shrugged and cut the fuse, "We stopped playing when the Flying Mint Bunny stopped fitting into the microwave."

"Holy hell…did England get in on that!" gasped the Prussian.

"No…called it immature," said Scotland pleasantly. He rounded on Canada and pulled him into a bear hug, "Now, how's my nephew? Miss me much?"

"Y-yeah, I've really missed you guys…but…" said Matthew hesitantly.

The Scotsman dropped his nephew and ruffled his hair with a large, sooty hand, "It's alright, I know we can be hard to handle sometimes and you prefer the quiet. I'll try not to make too much noise."

"Um, anyways, this is my boyfriend…I wanted you all to meet him," explained Matthew.

Gilbert, offered his hand, "I'm Gilbert Beilshmidt, the Awesome Prussia."

"Earnan Carnegie, Scotland the Brave," said the big man, smiling gently. Prussia shook his hand warmly. He didn't seem like a bad guy. He was a poetry loving gentle giant who liked to blow things to kingdom come. "So how long have you two been dating?"

"A few months…" admitted the Canadian, "I think…we don't really have an anniversary or anything."

"Oh that's fine, so long as you love each other, that doesn't matter much," said Earnan, he glanced back at a paler-than-usual Prussia, "Something wrong?"

"I'm sorry, but I just got sheep …stuff…on your hand…" mumbled Prussia, the original purpose of their trek to the shack having escaped his mind.

The Scotsman looked at his hand, shrugged, went to his desk and pulled a large bottle of hand sanitizer out of a drawer. He squeezed some into his own hands before tossing the bottle to Gilbert. "Don't worry about it, happens all the time. "

"So, you and Francy-Pants go back a ways?" asked Gilbert, changing the subject as he sanitized himself.

"Aye…we've held one of the longest alliances in history," said the Scotsman wistfully, sitting on a crate of biohazardous materials, "Met him while we were fighting the English. As soon as I saw him…I thought I must have gone mad. He's a bewitching one…when we first met we almost immediately seized each other's vital regions and"-

As Matthew's jaw dropped, Gilbert covered his poor boyfriend's ears as the Scotsman went into an animated description of him and France doing…what he and France did best it seemed. Matthew watched the silent show in front of him, his uncle making all sorts of hand gestures to show what he meant, pulling out power cords and plugging them into the wall, then pulling them out, then in, then out…Next his uncle pulled a chalkboard down and proceeded to start drawing diagrams. Gilbert did his absolute best to cover Matthews eyes and ears. Finally the Scotsman put the chalkboard away and Gilbert hesitantly loosened his hold on his poor impressionable boyfriend.

"And that was just the first round," finished Scotland nonchalantly.

"My god…Matthew…your uncle…tops France…" said Gilbert slowly, "In every sense of the word…"

"U-Uncle Earnan…in front of Gilbert…" sniffled Canada.

"I tried to keep it scientific and boring…sorry Matthew…" apologized Earnan, looking really and truly sorry.

"Anyways…we should…go and…see France! Right Mattie! We haven't seen France!" cried Gilbert, rushing his blushing companion to the door.

As the two left, the Scotsman waited until the two sounded like they had gone a safe distance from his little refuge and picked up the receiver of his phone. Well, the phone he had somehow wired to his waffle iron. He sighed, it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time, 'the time' being after a game of beer-pong. Earnan went to the fridge, poured some waffle batter into the mixed and matched contraption, turned it on and dialled England's number.

"Hello, Earnest? Is that you? You sound like...waffles..."

"It's Earnan," said Scotland, "And I did what you wanted, now can we leave them alone? I don't think Mattie can take much more."

"I understand, but I don't want Matthew with someone who will run off at the first sign of trouble. If we can throw everything we've got at him and he still stays, well, its true love isn't it?"

"I know…but I worry about him," argued Scotland, "Please promise me nothing over the top. I mean, he could be the one. The one suitor...to rule-"

"Don't you even go there Earnest," grumbled England.

"Anyways, please, for Matthew's sake don't do anything-"

"THAT CHEATING SHEEP RAPING BASTARD! COME ON IGGY LET'S GO TO THE RESCUE! I'M THE HERO!"

Earnan Carnegie paused for a long time, "Arthur what was-"

"Got to go Earnest! Bye!"

Scotland sighed, turned off the waffle iron/telephone contraption, ate his waffles, and then held his head in his hands. "This is going to be a long day…"

* * *

"Flavour…actual…flavour…I'm so happy to be alive…"

Francis watched as Liam joyously savoured what were really just ordinary crepes, then remembered the poor boy lived with both Arthur and his terrible cooking and decided the boy's behaviour was completely justified. Knowing Arthur he probably even used his siblings as guinea pigs for his culinary catastrophes. He looked over the younger Ireland, taking interest in the drill thrust in his belt.

"So, what's with the power drill?" asked Francis, peering into the oven to check on a cake.

"For scaring Gilbert," said Liam plainly, "I threatened his kneecaps."

"Only his kneecaps? Mon dieu…you still have much to learn. Kneecaps are a good place to start, but you have to mention at least one internal organ or a vital region," scolded Francis.

"Oh…do you think I should threaten him again?" asked Liam.

"No, no, you don't want to force it. Just pretend…hm…let me think…Monique, what would you imagine if you wanted to inspire yourself to be on your guard, protective, yet forceful?" asked Francis

"You, flirting with me," said Monaco curtly as she scrubbed a badder coated bowl in the sink.

"See? Just imagine me…Monique! Ma chérie…pourquoi!" Francis cried dramatically, « Vous m'aimez pas? »

« Je n'aime pas votre mains pervers… » huffed Monique, « Vous pouvez être si difficile… »

« Mais ma jolie petite sœur … » whined Francis.

« Arrêtez, assis, et mangez votre déjeuner, » commanded Monique.

Francis whimpered and sat next to Liam, making the best puppy eyes he could at his bespectacled sister. She was beautiful, as to be expected from any relation of his. Her lovely light brown hair was braided over her shoulder perfectly, her skin was flawless, her outfit elegant and in vogue. Yes, such a delightful younger sister, though a little strict and chilly at times. So much different from…certain other siblings…

As if to make a point, Taryn, smelling like a barn skipped happily into the kitchen. Monique instantly covered her nose, as did Francis, while Liam, more accustomed to the smell, only wrinkled his freckled nose slightly. The tawny haired annexed nation grinned wide, "They're coming back this way. If you guys have anything up your sleeves, now's the time to use it."

"But of course," said Francis flipping his hair dramatically, "You just leave it all to moi~"

"Should the two of us leave then?" asked Monique, pointing at Liam.

"Hell, yes. I do not want to be here when France starts releasing his pheromones…" said Liam nervously, inching away from the perverted nation beside him.

"Why, mon petit Irlandais? Afraid you'll fall for my charms?~" asked France, coyly picking up a piece of a crepe and pressing it to the younger boy's lips seductively, closing the gap between them slowly, "It must run in the family…"

"….Time to go," squeaked Liam, dashing out of the room.

Monique strutted past Francis disapprovingly, "Don't play with food like that Francis. Monsieur Hywel? Do you have a billiards room?"

"Billiards…oh! A rec-room! Sure, down the hall, second door on the left. There's a big pool table," directed Taryn, "Gonna go there to wait out the madness?"

"Non, I have plans of my own," said Monique politely, pushing her glasses up her nose slightly, "I just plan to go about them more orderly fashion."

"Oh, okay. Well, I'll be in the shower if you need anything, I'll even leave the bathroom door open just for you if you need me~" chirped Wales.

Monique looked the Welshman over and glared at him before striding out of the room irately. Wales pouted slightly, "Was it something I said…?"

"Yes," said Francis, plugging his nose and patting Wales sympathetically on the back, "Go get cleaned up. I'll take it from here."

Taryn sighed and left the room, leaving Francis to do what Francis did best.

* * *

Etymology time~~

Earnan: A Gaelic name often anglisized as Earnest. It means "Knowing" or "Knowledgeable"

Carnegie: Means "Fort at the Gap". Carnagie was also the surname of industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie, as well as the surname of the Dukes of Northesk and Southesks.


	5. Papa France

_Dear Sister, I'm glad we got to spend Saint Patrick's Day together. Remember when we decided pinching people who did not wear green ought to be replaced with the 'Chuck Norris Round House Kick of the Irish'? Good times were had by all...except our older brother, who was kicked in the crotch many times. _

* * *

Papa France

Gilbert's jaw had certainly gotten a workout that day from all the dropping, and it was not over yet. The mansion was nothing short of epic. It was the quintessential Victorian mansion with steampunk decorations everywhere. Probably England's doing. Arthur could play the gentleman all he liked, but in the end, he was still a punk to the core. Gilbert took in the decorations in awe. He had never seen a more punkish grandfather clock, sending out little puffs of steam to mark the seconds. The coat hanger was made of brass pipes. Everything looked was in a perfect mix of steampunk, goth and traditional Victorian style. Matthew hung up his coat on a pipe and smiled at Gilbert, "Uncle Earnan made most of the working steam contraptions, but England designed the way they should all look."

"Birdie…how the hell is it that your family is so crazy, and so smart?" asked Gilbert, taking a closer look at the grandfather clock.

"I'm…not really sure myself…" said Matthew, "Ireland had more Mensa members per captia in two thousand five, Scotland's full of great inventors…I just don't know…and they seem to be a little crazier than usual…"

"Hm, maybe it's a full moon, or something in the water around here," shrugged Gilbert.

Matthew sighed, "We're not due for one…It's just odd. Aunty Killian never drinks in the morning for no reason and...I actually don't think I've ever seen her drunk…Uncle Earnan doesn't normally talk about…you know…This is all just weird."

"Guess I'll just have to protect my birdie from all the crazies…" purred Gilbert, pulling Matthew close.

"Gil…" giggled Matthew shyly, "What if someone sees…"

"Matthew Williams, I survived crazy Irish people, being threatened with a power drill, impregnating a sheep, explosions, having stuff thrown at my head, stories about your uncle and France…I think I deserve a kiss, don't I?" argued Gilbert.

"I guess but, wait, who threatened you with a…Uncle Liam…It was Uncle Liam wasn't it…" groaned Matthew.

"Doesn't matter who. How long are you going to keep m-?"

Gilbert barely had time to recover as the Canadian all but tackled him into a wall, locking their lips into one hell of an awesome kiss. For a moment, Gilbert saw stars, and felt a little toungue before his 'shy' and 'retiring' boyfriend pulled back. "That…was awesome…"

"I am half French," grinned Matthew, flushing at his actions.

"Indeed you are mon petit."

Matthew turned and with an elated look on his face rushed to France, who had just emerged from the kitchen. Gilbert growled. Father figure or not, he did not want to see Francis, the world renouwned pervert with his Matthew!

"How have you been chere?" asked France, "Eating well? Or are you still living on a diet of ice cream and poutine?"

"Papa! I grew out of that ages ago…" pouted Matthew.

"Really, then how many cartons has he been through this week Gilbert?" asked Francis smugly.

"Just one…" lied Gilbert.

Matthew turned away, "Well…a little more than one…maybe…uh…e-eleven…"

"Well, then you better exercise enough to burn those calories…" warned Francis, his grin slowly turning from one of cool suavity into one of pure perversion.

"Francis, let go of my Birdie," growled Gilbert.

"It's okay Gil, we aren't like that," assured Matthew. That is, until Matthew tried to pull out of the hug, finding he was being held fast. He gave Francis another light squeeze before trying to pull back, and finding he could not. He also suddenly began to notice other things he had not before. Like the musky cologne Francis was wearing, the way his blond, wavy hair was set in that sexy way, how his shirt was opened to show just enough kin to make Matthew curious…and his eyes…staring into the depths of Matthew's soul…pulling him in closer…he could not…look…away…And where the hell did that sexy theme music come from? The lights suddenly seemed dimmer too…

"No! Mattie! Don't look directly into his eyes!" cried Gilbert, rushing towards them desperately.

"I can't help it…it's so beautiful…" said Matthew, mesmerized, inching closer to Francis.

"Birdie! Don't go into the ligh….the lig…the glowy…thingy…"

Gilbert trailed off as Francis looked up and locked eyes with him. Instantly he was pulled in by the Frenchman's intoxicating gaze, making Gilbert lose every ounce of common sense he had (which was not a lot really…) and move closer to Francis. The blond, former imperialist power pulled the two close, one in each arm, his hands slowly moving down their backs. "So…since we seem to have the house to ourselves…we should reacquaint ourselves…"

"Yeah…" said Matthew, now a puddle of passive Canadian in the wake of Francis' onslaught of sexy.

"Really now? Well…I won't keep you waiting…" whispered Francis in Matthew's ear, his lips brushing the sensitive outer shell making Matthew gasp.

The gasp was what brought Gilbert back to reality. Quickly he threw Matthew over his shoulder, kicked Francis in the shins and ran. "I'll save you Birdie! Let's get out of here!"

Francis yelped, sinking to the floor and hugging his shin. That hurt! That had really, really hurt! He pulled up his pant leg and saw a red welt starting to fade to purple and swell up. He had never imagined Gilbert would actually assault him. Hissing, the Frenchman rose to his feet and stumbled forward. He blinked as the front door let bright daylight in and leaned against the wall for support.

"Francis? What happened?"

France sighed with relief as a pair of large, strong hands wrapped themselves around his shoulders and lead him to the stairs. Sitting down, Francis looked up at the scruffy, sooty face of his auld ally Earnan Carnegie. Flinching slightly, Francis lifted his pant leg to show the damage. "Gilbert happened."

"That looks painful…" Earnan mumbled sympathetically, "No blood though, I'll get you some ice."

"Wait!" said Francis, pulling the Scotsman down as he began to rise to his feet. The Frenchman did his best to look coy and innocent, "…kiss it better?"

Scotland laughed and was only too happy to comply.

* * *

Killian grinned at her set up. It was so over the top with Irish stereotypes that she was almost offended by it. Almost. Really it was quite hilarious to look at. Potatoes, Lucky Charms and beer bottles were strewn across the yard with a random pig running around. Shamrocks had been crammed everywhere and strategically placed cakes of Irish Spring soap made it smell like, well, probably what some guy in a soap company assumed Ireland smelled like. Danny Boy, the wretched over played song, was twanging in the background. A fiddle was carefully placed along an old fashioned plow, because for whatever reason all the pubs in Dublin seemed to have them as a decoration even though plowing had nothing to do with going to a pub. A few phrases written in Irish were scrawled along the trees accompanied by Celtic knots to add to the mystery (though it was really only Killian's grocery list) with her broadsword and shillelagh held aloft. She leaned back against a tree with her flask of apple juice in one hand and her broadsword in the other. Oh, Matthew and Gilbert were going to get it…

Suddenly the melody of Clare's Dragoons rang out from Killian's buzzing pocket. She pulled out her phone and checked the caller ID. It was Arthur. She sighed and answered the phone, "Killian here. What's wrong?"

"Why do you assume something's wrong?" huffed Arthur.

"Because you're calling me," replied Killian.

"Well…uh…it's sort of embarrassing really…Alfred isn't really used to driving on the left hand side of the road and…well…he wrapped my car very neatly around a tree. We…we need a ride…" mumbled Arthur.

Killian sighed. So much for her brilliant plan. "Alright, I'll come pick you up."

"Y-You will? I mean…I know you don't…" said Arthur awkwardly.

"Arthur, just tell me where you are, please," grumbled Killian.

"If that's what you want," sighed Arthur, "Thankfully we crashed near that new truck stop. Alfred's gone in for a bite. Can you meet us there?"

"Sure. Just give me a minute, I'll be on my way," replied Killian.

"Kili…I want you to know that…I really am sorry…for everything…"

"...Arthur?"

Killian started as a busy signal rang in her ear. He had hung up, probably right after he had said his piece. She sighed and slumped against the tree.

"Sis?"

Killian looked up and saw her almost identical brother, looking down at her with concern, remnants of crepes still on his face. "Sis, are you okay?"

"Yeah, just tired from setting up. But I won't be able to use it, I need to pick up Arthur," sighed Killian, rising to her feet.

"Huh? Did something happen? Is he okay?" asked Liam worriedly.

"He's fine, just Alfred's bad driving again. I'm going to give them a lift home," explained Killian.

"Oh…kind of a pity though. This looks…offensive…but like it would still blow Gilbert's mind," said Liam.

"Then you do it. You're as Irish as I am," said Killian.

"I'm British too," protested Liam, "They'll know something's up if they know it's me. Let's face it, I _am_ the more well mannered of the two of us."

"Alright," said Killian, taking off her newsboy cap and putting it on Liam's head, "Than you be me, and when I get back, I'll be you. Nobody will have to know."

Liam grinned and straightened the hat, "Well, I do think I do a pretty good impression of you, and its fun messing with people's heads."

"Now, just remember, you are a stereotype. You are everything stereotypical about Ireland," said Killian, taking off her tweed jacket and handing it to Liam.

"Top o' the morning to ya lassie, have you seen me pot of gold?" chirped Liam, exchanging his vest for Killian's jacket.

Killian chuckled lightly, "Good…You've learned well grasshopper."

* * *

Gilbert retreated into the second room on the left and bolted the door. He panted and set Matthew down. Damn Francis and his damn sexiness. The man could make even the straightest of the straight or the most lesbian of lesbians switch teams in a heartbeat. People were drawn to him like moths to a flame. A burning flame of sex! Yeah, that was a pretty awesome description of Francis…

"I…sorry Gilbert…" panted Matthew.

"Don't worry, even the awesome me has problems with his…Francis-ness…" said the Prussian, searching for the right word, "The man's like some kind of Basilisk. But instead of stone you get turned into a hornball."

"Oh...then...you too?" asked Matthew quietly, blushing.

"Well...er...it was back during the Austrian War of Succession...I accidentally made eye contact with him..." mumbled Prussia, "But it didn't mean anything! He's France! He does that to people!"

Matthew giggled, "Well, you did rescue me...so maybe I should give you another rewar-"

"Bonjour."

The two jumped and whirled around to find Monique playing pool by herself, clumsily knocking balls into each other, not really trying to sink them. Gilbert watched her. She seemed to have this sort of strict but sexy librarian or secretary look going on. Matthew sighed with relief.

"Hi Aunt Monique…do you mind if we hide out here for a while? Oh, you know Gilbert right?" asked Matthew.

"Oui, I know him," said Monaco coldly.

"So, you don't mind us staying here?" asked the Canadian.

"I never said that did I?" said the elegant woman sharply.

Matthew looked as he was doing an impression of a big mouth bass as he gaped, taken aback by the blunt and negative answer. Monique looked Gilbert over critically, "You could have done better."

"Hey!" exclaimed Gilbert.

"You think I am wrong? Well, if you are as, awesome, as you say, then make me eat my words," challenged Monique.

"You name it lady! I can beat anyone at anything!" announced Gilbert with a grin.

"Pool. Beat me, and I will consider you good enough," said Monique plainly, "And if I win…You will leave, immediately."

Gilbert looked at Matthew, who was still shocked at his aunt's cold and downright cruel behaviour. The Prussian looked back at his potential in-law. "You're on. For Mattie, I'd take on the world."

"Very well," said Monique, casually moving the balls into position, "Do you want a handicap?"

"Hell no! I'm the awesome Prussia! In fact, I'll even let you break! There's no way in hell you can beat me!" cried Prussia with a loud laugh.

Monique nodded and aimed her cue at the white ball, carefully analyzing the table. Finally she struck the ball, sending it flying towards the others. Once they connected they transferred their kinetic energy through a chain reaction, striped and solid balls flying across the pool table, bouncing off the sides and colliding into each other. Gilbert gasped as one solid ball sank, than another, and another. Monique shrugged and watched as the balls slowed to a stop on the board.

"Hm, not good. Perhaps I should have suggested poker, I am much better at poker," said Monique, adjusting her glasses.

Gilbert cringed slightly, "Uh…say…lady…about that handicap…"

* * *

_Etymology teim~~~ _

_Monique: From Saint Monica. A saint with a hell of a lot of patience, which anyone related to France would need. Monique means 'Wise'._

_Sainte-Foy: A play on Francis' surname Bonnefoy (good-faith) Sainte-Foy is 'Saint faith'_


	6. Tante Monique

_Dear Sister, you irritate me sometimes and I'm sure I irritate you a lot. For now, we shall continue our war. Blast the FM radio all you want and I shall passive-aggressively return in kind with my opera and folk music! May the best geek win. _

* * *

Tante Monique

Killian drove her truck smoothly along the dusty country roads, which seemed to be in need of some repair. Noisily she slurped the soda her brother had bought her and viciously chomped down a fistful of chips, or fries, whatever they were called. Arthur sat in the passenger seat looking out the window pensively. Alfred was likewise noisily eating in the back seat, a little upset that his aunt had not only forbid him to drive her truck, she had also forbid him from riding in the truck bed.

Arthur quietly sipped his iced tea, since the weather was becoming far too warm for the hot stuff. He looked at his independent sister and sighed. Some countries changed with time but Killian seemed to remain the same. She looked exactly like she had in the nineteen twenties, except for…

"Kili, why are you wearing Liam's clothes?" asked Arthur.

"We're playing a game. If you don't mind, start calling me Liam when we get back," said Killian plainly, "And could you stop calling me that? You make me feel like a minor character from The Hobbit…"

"I've already told all of you only New Zealand and I can make those jokes," grumbled England.

"A _short_ character from the hobbit?" sniggered Alfred.

"Alfred Jones, you are going the right way for a smacked bottom," warned the red haired nation.

"Hey Aunty Kili? Do you have any music that would be good for an awesome chase scene? Because we should totally have chase music playing when we rescue the sheep!" exclaimed America.

"Great, now you've got him saying it," grumbled Killian. She reached for a CD case and handed it back to Alfred, who looked through it carefully. Arthur returned to his tea and avoided eye contact with his sister. Killian fixed her eyes on the road, keeping one arm on the stereo and one arm leaning in the open window.

"Kili, I really am glad you came," said Arthur quietly, "At first I honestly thought you sent Liam instead and…you still…hated…"

"Arthur, I don't want to talk about it," said Killian sharply.

"So we'll just leave the giant elephant in the room right where it is…" mumbled Arthur, gazing out the window over the English countryside. He hated this, he wanted some form of closure. He wanted for them to talk about everything, every last atrocity, get everything off their chests and start fresh. Killian was not like that though. It was getting to the point for Arthur where it hurt to see his sister. Every time he saw her he was reminded of everything that she would never speak to him about or forgive him for. It reminded him of a side of himself he hated.

"You listen to…Jedward! Oh my gosh you're a Jedward fangirl! That's totally hilarious!" yelled America, effectively ruining the mood.

"Hey! At least I don't have the Jonas Brothers OR Hannah Montana!" snapped Killian, "Now either you can shut up and listen to Jedward, or you can get out of my truck."

"You don't have to be so mean…" mumbled America, climbing over the seat and sliding a disk into the player, "Besides…the Jo Bros aren't that bad…"

"Right, and Dustin the Turkey will win the next election," chuckled Ireland before humming along to 'Lipstick.'

"Killian…if you don't mind…" began Arthur awkwardly.

"Arthur, please, not now. Maybe when this thing with Matthew is over, but not now," said Killian.

"N-no I was going to ask…" said Arthur, looking for a convenient excuse, "If you would…turn up the music. I like this song."

"Now that I can handle," sighed Killian with relief, turning up the music.

"B-best twenty three out of forty five…?"

* * *

Monique looked Gilbert over with her best death glare as Canada trembled in the corner. Gilbert had been in the room for under an hour with the woman and he was already terrifying him. Not only was she completely mopping the floor with him when it came to pool, she had to be the queen of passive-aggressiveness. Gilbert groaned, this really should not have surprised him. He got his invisibility from Wales, alcohol tolerance from one or both Irelands, kissing skills from France and Scotland, so his passive aggressiveness had to come from somewhere.

"If you want," said Monique curtly, "You could use the practice."

Gilbert winced as he almost felt her voice flay his skin and rearranged the ceramic balls on the billiard table. He positioned the white ball and moved to break.

"So, you live in your brother's basement? I suppose that will make Mathieu the bread winner?" asked Monaco.

Gilbert nodded slowly as he broke, scattering the brightly coloured balls across the green table. Monaco stalked her way around the table, analysing the different angles. "I'm really starting to wonder what you think you are bringing into this relationship."

"What do you mean by that, lady?" asked Prussia slowly.

"When two countries merge, or when two people get married, they both bring properties into the union," observed Monique, "Though in this case, materially speaking, you aren't bringing anything into the union."

"I'm bringing…my awesome?" offered Gilbert, looking to Matthew for help.

"I am just saying," said Monique smoothly, lining up her next shot, "That how much of a stretch of the imagination would it be, for someone to marry someone else to get out of a basement and get a steady source of income?"

"H-Hey!" exclaimed Gilbert, "I'll admit I've done some bad things, but I'm not with Mattie for anything like that!"

"Auntie, that's…that's going too far," said Matthew, adopting the same chilly tone as his aunt, "I'm not going to let you talk about Gilbert like that."

"So, he can't even fight his own battles?" asked Monique, "You have to step in? Some husband…"

"What exactly made you think I was the wife?" asked Matthew dangerously, "And what made you think I would be dumb enough to get into a relationship with a gold digger?"

"I'm not a gold digger…" mumbled Prussia as Matthew and Monique filled the room with frigid passive aggression.

"I said nothing of the sort, I simply don't want you taken advantage of," replied Monique in a frosty voice.

"I can handle myself Aunty, and Gilbert too. In fact, I can handle a lot more than most people think I can," said Matthew crisply with an icy smile.

"It's okay Birdie, I can defend my-" began Gilbert.

"Stay out of this Gilbert," snapped the two passive aggressive Francophones.

"I'll go…um…do…productive…things then…." mumbled Gilbert as the two blonds stared each other down the most polite duel the Prussian had ever seen.

"Aunty, I think you should take back what you said," suggested Canada threateningly.

"And I think you should reconsider the last month of your life," replied Monique sweetly.

Prussia dove behind a couch as the tension in the room built to astronomical levels. Canada had a scary side to him. Not some kind of psychotic, crazy, run around swearing and bashing people's brains in scary. The cute little blond would actually get quieter, politer, an iciness would creep into his voice and he would glare in a way that would make grown men wet themselves in fear. Then he would polietely request what he wanted, and his enemies would fall over themselves to do it, lest they invoke Canada's wrath.

"Well," said Monique, "You pass."

"Pass?" asked Canada, still on the defensive.

"Yes, it's not right that only Gilbert gets singled out. You're both in this together and should defend each other. You pass," said Monique.

"Wait…you're all testing me?" asked Gilbert, "That's so not cool!"

"No, just me, the others are just…how do you say it in English…Ah, yes, they're morons," said Monique frankly, "The Welshman is psychotic, the Englishman is obsessive, the Irish girl is full of emotional baggage, the Scotsman smells terrible, the Irish boy is going through an angsty phase and France is a perverted, arrogant, sickeningly-"

"Holy crap, I guess you learned how to make bitchy rants from her…" whispered Prussia to Canada, earning an embarrassed nod.

"Um, anyways Aunty, I think we're going to go for a walk and just have some time to ourselves," said Canada, "You're all sort of making me nervous."

"Oh, I don't blame you," said the blond woman, adjusting her glasses and putting the ceramic balls away, "I'm avoiding them myself. I might do the same thing later."

* * *

"Ecosse…I didn't realize you missed me so much…" panted Francis.

"I always miss you…" sighed Scotland against France's marked, smooth skin.

Earnan Carnegie had done more than kiss Francis' little injury better. He had kissed the bruising leg, then Francis had informed him that he had a little ache in his wrist, which Earnan just had to kiss better as well. Then Francis had bit his lip during the second round of kisses, so of course the Scotsman kissed the pink bleeding lips as well. Then, one thing just sort of led to another and they started to make out on the stairs.

"Mm…I've thought of something else that kind of hurts…" said the blond nation slyly, tugging at the end of the Scotsman's kilt.

"And where would that be?" said the scruffy, sooty man with a grin.

Francis gingerly removed Earnan's goggles and laced his fingers around the leather strap, "Hm, are you sure you want to know?"

"Francis Bonnefoy am I going to have to force that information from you?" asked Scotland.

"I would like to see you try," challenged the Frenchman.

This of course led to another round of heated kisses, just as Gilbert and Matthew emerged from the billiard room.

"Oh my god!" yelled Gilbert, covering Matthew's eyes, "Whatever happened to decency!"

"Oh please, you've done much worse than this," huffed Francis, buttoning up his shirt a little.

"Birdie! Avert thine eyes and hurry!" yelled the Prussian, rushing the Canadian out of the house.

Scotland blinked and looked down at France, "I hope Mattie's okay, but what do you suppose that was all about?"

France pouted, "It's you not kissing me anymore. And you had better fix that toute de suite Monsieur Inventeur!"

* * *

"My god, they're crazy…" said Gilbert, breathing in the sweet farm air.

"Sorry…should have warned you…they get kind of…frisky…" mumbled Canada with a blush, "And I'm sorry about my Aunt, she really does mean well."

"I know, thanks for sticking up for me back there," smiled Gilbert, elbowing Matthew's arm playfully, "I'll be sure I live up to your expectations and be as awesome as you think I am."

"Gil, how could you not be awesome," said Matthew smiling back.

That was when they were jumped by a crazy Irish person in blue paint, Danny Boy blaring triumphantly behind 'her' as 'she' held a broadsword aloft, swinging a shillelagh in 'her' free hand. Matthew stared completely stunned as Gilbert's jaw dropped for the umpteenth time.

"Um…Aunty Killian?" asked the Canadian.

"I can't take this anymore!" screeched 'Killian', "Come on me boyos! We're taking over England once and for all!"


End file.
